


At the Hearth

by gearsandgrime



Category: Great Expectations - Charles Dickens
Genre: Cute, Dickensian, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romantic Fluff, pipbert - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-14
Updated: 2017-08-14
Packaged: 2018-12-15 02:58:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11796984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gearsandgrime/pseuds/gearsandgrime
Summary: A cozy night after weeks of Herbert being gone.





	At the Hearth

**Author's Note:**

> This is some cute fluff I think you will enjoy whether you understand who the characters are or what this comes from or not. So plz. Just read it. I worked too hard on this for my own good lmao. 
> 
> Songs I listened to while writing:
> 
> \- You Suck Charlie - Joji  
> \- Estella's Theme - Patrick Doyle ("Great Expectations")  
> \- 名前を呼ぶ - ラックライフ  
> \- Serenade No. 2 in G minor - Sibelius
> 
> (Not everything in this fic may be completely accurate to the times that everything took place in the book, so please don't hold it against me too much if I mixed a few details up)

While receiving mail was nothing out of the ordinary, it certainly wasn’t frequent that Pip received more than three or four at a time, most being from Jaggers or invitations to esteemed parties. That evening, Pip had been dining alone in the Temple, as he liked to do at times to have a moment to his own self. Eating by himself did not have a glorious number of perks, especially when being left to his thoughts brought him discomfort when he was reminded by the way the light hit the table, or the small talk of Joe or Estella, or weary, misted roads. None brought him joy, despite his mind wandering to them, like an afraid child in the dark. Suddenly, a chiming rung through the room, signifying a guest at the entrance, and Pip being startled, gripped his silverware somewhat tighter, and his body froze rigidly in place. All the quiet that had been surrounding him had numbed out any sense of expectation. Not a moment need pass before he came to realization on who it could be, and he made his way to the door. Upon the other side of the door, a hand was rapping upon the door as energetically as a young puppy. 

He greeted, to his dissatisfaction, the mailboy, commenting how he had not expected any mail this late in the evening. Respectively, the young boy greeted him and announced the small letter’s sender, remarking how it had not been put in the post because of the late hour and it’s pressing importance. Throwing forth the letter in front of Pip’s eyes with so much rush, he thought there must a good deal of letters needing delivered within the next half hour for other late mail receivers, the boy declared, “A letter for you, from Mr. Pocket.” This stirred something in Pip’s breast, not having heard from his dear friend in weeks. Joy towards Herbert and his endeavors had originally found a place inside him, imagining what wonderful things he might do and see in such a foreign land. However, as the days went by, worry took it’s turn and replaced his original excitement, wondering for his safety and doing of business. In the moment, he could now only take the paper in his hands and feel as he used to as a child at Christmas-time, being surrounded by Joe and humble but joyful foods that had satisfied him so readily. With words of thanks, he bid the boy a good night, who then ran off, similar to the way a clucking chicken might. Just as immediately, Pip spun on his heels and closed the door behind himself, and made his way back to where he had dined, but took little notice of his meal waiting upon the table. Instead, his destination lay at the chair, in front of the mantel, where breathing embers were in need of oxygen. Paying no mind, the letter went open, and Herbert’s distinct cursive that Pip knew so well from notes and payments became present. 

 

_ Dearest Handel, _

 

_ My ventures in Egypt, I should think, are at a conclusion, and I will be returning home to you within two fortnights. Perhaps I shall have returned sooner by the time my letter has reached your hands. I await impatiently to return. Egypt was simply marvelous in umpteen ways, and I am most merry that trade has gone along exceedingly sound. I think that you would find this just as gay as well, dear Handel! Some souvenirs I am bringing back I think you will enjoy. The trip was most enjoyable, but I am restless and ready to return to experience a decent sleep. Hopefully you shall recognize me when I return, for the sun was so hot it beat down as if a magnifying glass had been put to it and pointed to me. My skin has been either baby pink and peeling, or tanned like caramels.  _

_ Pray tell me, dearest Handel, that you shall entrance me with stories of your wellbeing with my being away for such a time? I know that more than several times throughout my endeavors here you have strayed across my mind, and I do wonder before I lay my head to sleep, if you do experience this as well? I cannot seem to let you out of my mind, and it is most worrying when I am attempting to attend to my trade. My only hope is when I am upon the ship to sail back to London, the waves rock me to peaceful sleep of home and our delightful times we do have together always so splendidly. _

 

_ My warmest regards, _

 

_ Herbert Pocket _

 

Whilst each word had crossed through his mind, what he had not felt come upon him with each letter was a cherishing grin. With the letter between his fingers, paper dry and inanimate, he felt as if his Herbert sat across from him, dimples like rays of sunshine and hands expressively gesturing, enlightening him with the anomalies of trade and Egypt. Despite him being a sea away, the fire brought warmth similar to how the words touched him. And knowing that things had been going most joyously for Herbert only ignited a spark of ecstatic delight inside Pip as well, seeing how his friend was carrying on. He prayed less than two fortnights it would take to bring Herbert from his journey to the Temple, where he could rest his feet and be next to him at the hearth. 

Once more, then twice, then thrice, Pip found himself studying the letter, as if the words themselves would jump up and off of the page, and into the embers before him. No letter changed, no words added onto the original ones. With a finishing breath, Pip folded the paper back to its original half and went to his room to place it at his bedside, so that it might bring him comfort and whimsy in his sleep. It rested beside the pedestal clock, in a sort of ironic fashion, that the speed at which the clock’s hands turned was so contrasting to how quickly Pip wished for the time to pass. 

Nevertheless, time had, and would, eventually go on. Time is never a friend, and most certainly not when needed most to be such. It has such a peculiar behavior, the way it sluggishly drags on, a ship crossing from London to America, or stroll by and gone before it is seen. It is a pickpocket out in the streets, blending in with all the other common hubbub. Dreadful is it to watch it pass, and seeing it go almost hurts the worse, because it will never come back or bid a farewell. A formality such as that is beyond itself, designed only for the human, for its comfort and peace. 

This was all no different for Pip, who went through the motions of his weeks similar to any other, despite an anxious tremor in his breast that would not leave him for anything on the earth. Many a time, he would notice his consciousness completely elsewhere: his tea already missing from his cup, despite just having poured it, his coat upon his shoulders without recollection of putting it on. In other instances, he could be enjoying a morning stroll, either to his independence or company. On his own was most dreadful, for it wouldn’t take long to realize he had already left home and was halfway through his usual route. Being in the company of another, his attention would be beckoned once or twice, and the inevitable question of “Are you well?” asked of him. Each time, he could only greatly apologize and mention how Herbert was soon returning to London, and he was most eager to see his arrival. 

Just as any other evening might proceed in these times, Pip one night was eating in the Temple to his independence, when a sudden and most heavy thundering roared. It appeared to be coming from outside the Temple, but nevertheless gave Pip a terrible fright. For certain, no letter boy was impatiently awaiting him to open the door to receive anything. Slowly, the noise crawled closer, and Pip felt a stab of fear run up his back. For an instance, he considered taking hold of the fire poker and banishing the possible intruder, but thought the better of it, and could only stay momentarily frozen in place. It had also, in fact, completely left from Pip’s mind that the noise could be music to his ears, but routine had been set so firmly upon him that it went completely unnoticed that his friend was at last home. Urgent and fearful, Pip rose from his seat and made his way from the room, and throwing the door agape. He called out to the noise, asking to make present whatever was there. 

“Why, it’s me, Handel! Do come forward and see such the ruckus I am making with all my things and lend a hand,” called Herbert, and a flame roared to life that had been so deprived of any air. Most eagerly, he complied, and rushed forward to assist Herbert with his things. Meanwhile, Herbert tried to not drop any fragile items (a few that Pip had guessed to be the souvenirs he had mentioned in his letter), and strode through the open door, it being his second nature. Passing by the gentleman, he caught a peculiar scent of sand and dirt, but the ever-so familiar smell that Pip had not realized he had come to know as Herbert. And indeed, as it had been written, Herbert was indeed a shade or two darker of skin from when he had last seen him over two months ago, with the apples of his rosy cheeks peeling dry and beyond sun-kissed (Pip would argue sun- _ whipped) _ , and the back of his neck the color of ripe peaches, or a newborn babe. 

“So, how are you, how are you, and how  _ are  _ you, dear Handel? It has been so long!” While he moved out and about, Herbert exclaimed this, all the while trying to look to Pip as often as possible. Meanwhile, Pip hoisted packs and bags upon his back to help.

Following after the proactive Herbert, who did not seem as exhausted as expected, having come from Egypt, Pip could not bare to first answer the question given to him, when there was a much more present issue, and he instead asked what had been on his mind ever since laying eyes on the poor and flaky skin of his closest friend: “Did you try, good Herbert, to cover your poor ears, or neck, or cheeks? Why, look at you! I am afraid to touch it.” To this, Herbert only laughed with mirth and continued about with his things, which were being set on every available surface, and it began to worry Pip that the room of the Temple in which they were putting everything would be buried in it, and he spoke slightly louder to be heard over the racket of the things. 

His head cocked to the side, to reach Pip’s ears as they went about. “At first, the thought didn't cross my mind, to my most grave mistake. Within a day, the sun had come down so hard I thought I might die! You shall never see me with so much perspiration upon my face as I had there, good Handel. However, as I made my way into Cairo, a stout and excitable merchant man made a great deal to explain to me what I should be wearing, and I purchased a hat and garb from him.  _ Even so, _ ” emphasized he, enough to stop his actions to stare at Pip, who had also brought his work to a conclusion, but without meaning to, being so entranced to hear his dear companion be with him once more to talk with, “The front of my hapless face could not escape punishment, and it was most unpleasant.” 

From his story, it was hard to believe that his time was as grand as he made it to be, but he still ended his brief retelling with contentedness and mentioning how marvelous his journey had been, and how his dreams still felt to be such a way because of how unreal it felt to finally have achieved them. Hearing this swiftly shifted his original opinion, and he could not help but be just as gleeful, or even more, than Herbert. Unable to help himself, and having felt so distant for what felt longer than three months, he rushed to his Herbert and embraced him. Moreso caught off guard by a lantern set upon the ground, Herbert nearly tripped over. He took a half step back, then balanced himself. All the while, his arms had just as vivaciously wrapped around Pip. A murmur came from Pip, but it was buried beneath the collar of Herbert’s olive frock coat. Not even Pip himself could recount what it was he had intended to say, moreso that the mumble had been a release of breath long built up. 

From his coat, Pip slightly removed where he had rested his head, so that he might be comprehensible: “I fear I nearly have forgotten the way your hair curls so,” admitted him, gentle as flower petals drifting through the air and downstream. 

Their grasp ended, as Herbert smoothly pulled away, taking care to not nearly trip once again. “Come,” he beckoned, “Let us have some tea and be cozy in front of the fire. You shall be able to easily recall my appearance if you look at me.”

“But Herbert, do make yourself home for awhile and remove your coat!” exclaimed Pip, and he moved behind Herbert to help take it off him. Herbert said a word of thanks, and the coat was hung upon the coat hanger beside the door. “Do not be ready to leave so soon. Come now!” he jested, but it was completely playful, and a giggle was made in return. Meanwhile, as he spoke, Herbert moved to the stove and kettle to heat some water for them both, not at all troubled by doing the task, or from the uncountable amount of luggage and more that had been brought in with such haste. 

“I would never dream to,” Herbert responded.

A feeling Herbert had described not just moments ago, Pip understood with incredible weight. Indeed, it had not been the first trip he had made that caused him to be gone for quite some time. But it was undoubtedly true that Pip became so miserable at his being gone, always having had his most favorable moments with Herbert. This caused Pip to wonder what it was that he labeled as such, and only instances such as dining together, or strolling together in the park, and regular things that would be found trivial to another man came to mind. The play that was less than satisfactorily performed by Wopsle, that neither could contain their sniggers and smiles at such a ludicrous job was certainly a contender. 

Maneuvering, similar to a robber’s awkward sneak, Pip found his way around all the small things, keeping it known in the back of his head that the next morning would be spent organizing it all, he positioned himself to lean against the counter. “I do watch you, dear.” Returning to the soft tone of snow he had last used, Pip said this. 

“And I you, dear Handel.” The kettle was upon the stove, and Herbert lingered next to it. 

“Come and rest your feet, it will be a moment before it’s ready,” Pip said, leading the way to their respectable chairs adjacent to each other, awaiting their use. How comfortable it would be, to sit and enjoy the company of the friend who was dearest to him. The two of them both knew their place, routinely sitting in the same armchairs without a thought. Together, they took their seats, and watched in quiet and stillness, the embers that glowed red and orange, as alive as their own very breaths. Likewise, Herbert grasped the poker and coaxed the more untouched pieces to burn. 

Upon the shelf clock, it read twenty-eight past eleven. However, the dreary feeling, so much like mud, or coal dust caught in a miner’s lungs, had been replaced by restful, harmonious energy. It was not the type that left Pip’s eyes batting, but rather instilled a wave of calm and euphorium that was much needed after the days of impatience and restlessness. 

“Pray tell me,” began Herbert, placing the poker back to its spot, “How you have been while I was away? I wish to know of you first before I would recount any of my times.” 

“I must admit I went along quite poorly,” sighed he. “Why did you not write? I was not sure if you were alright. I tremble to even mention what I feared.” 

The comment did not at first register with Herbert its seriousness, and he smiled at him, but it slightly faded as his face was studied for a moment. “Oh, Handel, you needn’t worry for me!” 

“But I cannot help myself,” his hands went to hold his face as he interjected with agitation. “You are my dearest companion, and I do not like to entertain the idea that something may go wrong as you go about with your trade, but my head does nevertheless, and I am left with feeling a hole in my heart.” With one breath and one alone this proclamation was made, and rendered Herbert’s original cheerful appearance to a solemn one. The fire became a point of interest to Pip, who turned his face to it and glared, unblinking. From the corner of his eye he could see that he was being watched, but still started when he felt a hand placed upon his knee. Warm and comforting, and so familiar were his fingers. 

Outside, through the quiet street corners, where only a dim lantern lit the path, travelled by only homeless and drunks in the hour it was, hallowing wind gushed through, noticeable even through the walls of the Temple. A draft seemed to have a source from somewhere inside, and a chilling breeze of cold air wafted through sparse but patent, and as daunting as death. Be it from his gloom, or the fact that the fire was more of a smolder than a fire, or the hand upon him, Pip shivered, not averting his gaze away from the mantel. 

A solacing voice: “You shiver, dear Handel. Shall I coax the fire?” 

“No, you need not trouble yourself.” He fought to keep his voice natural, a struggle that pulled his chest and throat and burned his eyes until he could hardly see. 

Such a dark thing is emotion. The way it creeps up upon even the most guileful pickpocket, who cannot and cannot ever beat it. A mother and a whip, it cradles and rocks, plants a kiss upon one’s crown, or stings and leaves one bleeding. Often, both sides are equals in their device, deriving from nothing more than an everyday occurrence, some the lack thereof. Like wilted flowers, so pretty with the withering of old age, knowing that all one day will be the same, they’re tender and ghastly, haunting one’s every step. A hand lovingly upon one’s knee, emotions shove aside the mind, having the selfishness of a dog, which is a sinless creature, for nothing they do is for anything but the need to survive. And so they live. 

“Then look to me, dear Handel,” and Pip came to realization that Herbert still lay his hand upon him, anticipating him to turn his head. He compiled, an edge to him that was surely unexpected to Herbert. Undoubtedly, Pip’s guilt was rooted, but he could not bring himself to beg pardon. The words in which he had spoken had been truthful, and similar to his blabberings against the coat collar, they came out naturally, paper burning when introduced to flame. Ordinarily, during the trips in which Herbert took with his trading business, a letter would arrive for Pip in the post, habitually once, then again, often a comment on his soon return to London. Though in the moment, he had read them with normalcy, it was easy enough for the lack of them to send him into a fluster, hence his outburst. In the present, his companion looked to him with tenderness, eyes crystals, and worth far more than gold. Pip answered him by staring back, and felt as if Herbert’s eyes were going beyond just his features, but into his heart and soul, where no one besides himself had ever roamed. Much less unnerving was it than it was enlightening, and brought his heart to a running pace, and he feared that it was quite noticeable to not just himself.

“I do look to you,” replied Pip, gliding his hand over Herbert’s. 

“Then see this, dearest Handel. Am I not safe and sound? You touch my hand, is it not flesh? I touch yours; it is so cold―Will you not let me coax the coals?” A half-grin was irresistible as it formed upon Pip’s mouth, and he leaned forward so that he might lift Herbert’s hand to his face. 

“Are my cheeks cold?”

“They are becoming rosy as apples. Bring your hand to mine―do not be afraid, my skin is not in pain―and warm your hand,” beckoned he, with his peeling cheeks, that despite his reassurance, still gave Pip anxiety to lay his hand upon. Gingerly, a pianist touching the keys for the first time in an eternity, his fingers brushed along the comely cheek of Herbert, which was splendid and hot, as if the Egyptian sun were still coming down upon him. Distant was the wind, as well as the draft, and the fire, although he could feel it with an intensity. 

Time could not have gone by a second. Perhaps it could have frozen, to which Pip would find most agreeable, so that they may hold onto each of their breaths. Never would they be chilly again, if his hand could stay upon the cheek of Herbert, which was dimpled; a trait he did not forget from when he first saw the pale young gentleman as a boy. How grateful he was, beyond measure, that God would so have it that Herbert accompany his side as he underwent the trials that rendered him so miserable and heavy hearted. Lips pursing, Herbert exhaled a miniscule wift of air, and with his hand, and mildness to his demeanor, reached to lay it down upon Pip’s. All the while, he looked, and Pip looked, and only them; the Temple, London, and the world turning their attention elsewhere, so that they might never have to avert their amatory gazes. “See, I do not shiver,” replied Pip, each word smaller than the next, to where the last one was made to be understandable with great effort. Herbert broke into a warm grin, differing from Pip’s half-smile a moment ago, the way it resembled sunshine.

“Oh, Handel,” his fingers curled as he sighed. He took Pip’s hand and brought it away from him, returning to their original positions, and Pip’s mind was in a world of comfort. So much did his worries compare to the wind, which was constantly there, but now it took a new meaning of what it meant to be the same as such, and they blew away, far off and out of mind. The wax of the candles, that flickered upon the window sill, melted, so much as did Pip’s own troubles. “I should like to apologize, that my lack of letters did so unsettle you. You know, as my most beloved, my intentions would never be as such. For that, I am truly sorry for being disagreeable.” Throughout each sentence of his, slowly he leaned forward, so it became that their knees touched, and it was not at all uncomfortable. The depth of his apology was beyond what Pip knew he deserved, and he found an incredible stir within his breast, as well the level of guilt in which he felt. He stammered, feeling the words in his mouth, but none having the ability to smoothly pass from his lips. To the best of his abilities, he reciprocated, telling how he deserved not a single word of it, and that the crossness of his tone he had given was uncalled for, and that he too often is unkind. 

“Herbert, you know that I am a creature that has little good about me―”

“Handel, you tell yourself lies―”

“And I know that of all people upon this earth, to be begged for my pardon is indeed quite low―”

“It is an honor I hold dear,” coolly retorted Herbert, unyielding to let his companion finish a single phrase.  

At last, Pip silenced himself (or by Herbert’s words, he shall never quite know himself), and helplessly gazed to him. Though his troubles had temporarily floated away, his own perception could not, and Herbert could see this, as he had already looked inside him. 

Whistling noise erupted from the boiling kettle upon the stove, cueing Herbert to start upwards and retrieve it, all the while with Pip watching. After a moment of pure daze, forgetting himself, he followed after, assisting in retrieving the tea things. From there, he set them upon the dining table, and cleared away his evening meal which he had entirely forgotten about. Herbert transferred the boiled water to a teapot; their prettiest one, colored with pink petals and gold, and placed the tea leaves into two cups. Without a word needing be muttered, Herbert fixed both their cups how each fancied best, and delivered the saucers which they rested upon to the table. Meanwhile, Pip shared in helping, and prepared a pickle dish, along with some bread and butter, and placed them in the table’s center. From there, the two sat, and were content with each other’s company. 

So contrasting was their conversation from the hearth, that the air had less weight upon Pip’s shoulders, and he made a light joke of how this could be the latest he had ever had tea, to Herbert’s equally light agreement. Then, they continued with their late tea-time, and soon cleaned up with their tea and bread and pickles. As they finished, and looked about them, Pip could feel himself struggling, and could hear the  _ tick, tick, tick _ of the shelf clock, and knew with great melancholy that the night would soon end. And though there would be morning to-morrow, it could not sit right in his stomach that the evening would come to a conclusion, and they’d tuck into bed and continue on, normal as any other day or hour. 

Starting hesitantly, Pip had to stop him before he announced his tiredness and likeness to go to bed, wrung his hands, and said: “Herbert, have you a moment?” 

Now focused, he stopped his leisurely stance, and raised his brows. “Why yes, Handel. Is there something the matter?” 

Oh, if he could only know himself what it was he wanted to say in entirety! Not entirely sure why, his heart began to hammer, like the one he swung so long ago at the forge. “I do not wish for our evening together to come to an end.”

Herbert was only puzzled, and his caterpillars for brows now moved in new directions. “Dear Handel, we have plentiful evenings to come. What is it you mean to say?” 

“You know my heart, dear Herbert, can you not read it now?” Like at the fireplace, with his hand upon Herbert’s cheek, his companion’s lips exhaled their tiny breath, as if it had been taken away. He was not displeased, but rather had realization of Pip’s words. Pip felt clouds and softness, warmth and goodness, looking upon Herbert like the rose he was, and, almost as second nature, knew he desired him. 

“Then do come closer, dearest,” beckoned he, and Pip obliged, filling the gap between them. As he did, Herbert continued with a smile, “You know I shall not forsake you. Although I am not completely sure as to why,” his voice became lower the closer Pip came, “to-night we cannot let go, I also have to wonder myself,” Pip now stood before him, and gripped the ends of Herbert’s forearms, “Why I feel as if it has been an eternity since we last saw one another, and why I crave your touch so very notably.” 

Crisp apples, controlled embers, cubes of sugar, and all simple things of life that always bring the most joy, whether one knows it or agrees or not, were the equivalent of this moment, as Herbert took one of his hands and brought it to the back of Pip’s neck, softly and winsomely. And just like a bed, or a full meal, or tea and teacups, fires and ripe apples, it was still instances such as this that Pip knew he had taken for granted. Could he be the better person he longed to be, he’d cherish them all the day, each day of the week. Suddenly, he felt the need to apologize once more, but restrained himself, knowing forgiving and loving Herbert would have none of it. Instead, his lips took the next most natural step, and brought themselves to his cheek, which were hot and slightly dry in places where the sun had gotten to him most, but where his lips lay, soft as ever. 

“My dear Handel, you needn’t be so coy,” as he dragged his hand higher unto Pip’s face, he sighed, his eyes friendly and sparkling like champagne. 

The fire at the mantle was most certainly done for good, and it breathed one last huff of life, before it blanketed the room in only the mellow glow of the few candles spread thinly throughout the open room. There was no surprise, or perhaps no notice entirely, of this, and without stopping a beat, Herbert kissed Pip, with all the tenderness the world could hold, that only Herbert could give to Pip. It was intermingled with the remaining warmth of Egypt and the fireplace, and his own way that was so sprightly but gentle, knowing always what he needed best, somewhere between being the person destined for him, or a part of him completely. And being completely engrossed in Herbert, Pip failed to recognize his own well-being, and the wobbling and knocking of his knees nearly went unnoticed, before he brought his hand into Herbert’s peppered curls and silently begged God to keep him upon his feet so that he may not have to bring the moment to a conclusion. All things, all things that were anything but Herbert flew out of his head, and they joined the raucous wind out in the streets, drifted to Richmond, then ascended into the heavens. 

As they parted, Herbert did not stop his lovingness, and asked, a mouse with how tiny his voice was, but a lion with how low, “Do you fear I shall change in the morning? That I will be a different person, or disappear from you completely?” And though Pip was a completely independent person, and the absence of Herbert was never particularly difficult, its melancholy was undoubtable when he could do nothing more than amuse himself with his dinner being brought to him and eating it whilst gazing from out the window, lost and destitute, or walking himself in Hyde Park, walking such a great deal that he sometimes ached from it, but the aching in his heart that was tried and tried again to be denied was present, a spoiled child roaring, sniveling, and offensive when it did not receive what it wanted. In the bitter end, Herbert was completely right, as he often was when with Pip, and it was a needle to his soft heart; so much were the words so, ones he had not even come to realize he had been thinking in his head all the while he tried to keep Herbert with him, his head sunk downwards, and once more he embraced him. 

“Once more, I will say, that it is I who is most often in error,” whispered Pip, and he melted feeling the arms come around his back, and the head rest upon his shoulder, “I do not know why it is I would fear such a thing―”

Herbert interrupted very suddenly, his mouth turned away from his body and to the room, “Because, dearest Handel, you are a person who comprehends emotion with such fragility, especially when it is yourself. I have known this all the days I have known you. Each instance a silly little trouble goes through your silly head, you work yourself up until you are sick. I shall try to pacify you, but pray be more kind to yourself.” And with this point meant to be final, he kissed him once more, planting his lips serenely to his neck. Pip exhaled heavily through his nose, closing his eyes from the sensation, and in turned placed a kiss to Herbert’s cheek. Then, Herbert, with gentle motions, stepped slightly away, bringing his hand down and grasped Pip’s, his eyes fluttering and closing, bringing the hand to his lips. Amiably, Pip could feel his cheeks burn with color, and tightened his fingers around the one that held his, and all his petty worries truly and finally drifted afar. No longer did he blame Herbert for his lack of communication, and he felt utterly wretched for his clinginess to the papers, the ink his own blood, the hot and melted wax stamp his heartbeat as it was pressed downward onto the envelope. 

He spoke with heavy eyelids but a body of contentedness, and felt a desire to make it known once more that his behavior had been unnecessarily high-strung. Upon opening his mouth and wetting his lips, his companion immediately shushed him with a finger. “Now Handel,” warned he, “I should not like that you make any attempt to beg pardon when it is  _ I  _ who should, and I say that not out of making you feel better, but out of plain fact. Understand, my love?” With a fond pat of his cheek, Herbert turned away, also ready to slumber. 

In all the stillness of the darkened room, Pip could only join among them, as statue-like he was, the words on his tongue slipping away, to the cracks in the floor. Not even the wind howled; instead, a gentle patter of rain kissed the windows, not at all dismal. Not at all, despite rain having such a reputation being such. Rain falls to the earth, a nurturer to the plants, the animals, the humans who deject it so. Parched throats are quenched, huddles of two in the street to be underneath a protecting umbrella come together, not just being beside whomever, but radiating warmth and companionship. It pitters and patters so that one might not be alone on a cold and dark night such as the one Pip stood in, if his Herbert had not been able to return yet home. It could be the very reason one cries, that no one but mother nature is there to comfort them with the best it can do, for even as humans do their best, it is rarely enough, and one who holds someone dear who is enough, or perhaps even more than that, should be cherished for eternity, and surely a bond such a thing as that was no coincidence from God. 

Pip brought his head into his hands, eyes covered, but he was not crying. No, Pip smiled, and did so as sweetly as candies, it reached ear to ear, though tears did form in the beds of his eyes, with how glad he was to ever have met such a splendid, lovely, genuine person as Herbert Pocket, and thanked God one, twice, and a million times over that he did have him next to his side. He brought out his head and looked to the fire as best he could, seeing their two armchairs they held an attachment to, and how warm they always were next to a kindling fire, though the fire didn’t have to be there. With a final and set  _ huff _ , Pip padded to his chambers, sweet dreams already in his head. 


End file.
